


apple pie and overalls

by weirwoodnet



Series: just adolescents, you and i [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Clark and Lois' A+ parenting, F/M, First Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18772981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirwoodnet/pseuds/weirwoodnet
Summary: “You didn’t pack any bags. You didn’t even tell me you were coming over. And if you wanted some alone time, I mean…” Jon stroked his cheek with his thumb, blue eyes concerned. “Doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to see you ran here, D.”Damian sighed, clutching at Jon’s hand. “I don’t run,” he huffed. “I merely came…seeking your advice. And company. If you’d like me to leave…”





	apple pie and overalls

**Author's Note:**

> Jon and Damian are both 14 in this universe, which is a mix of elements from various different continuities.

             Damian swallowed thickly as he climbed the porch steps, wincing at every impact of his booted feet on the solid wood. The farmhouse glowed warmly inside, the sound of evening TV drivel mixing with the chirping of cicadas in a pleasant melody of Middle America. He had always loved it here, though he’d never admit to it; loved the way the landscape leapt forward with brilliant color, the way the sky was clear and starry at nights, the way every person seemed somehow unique and at peace in a way that no Gothamite ever could be. He knew, of course, that all of it was some stupid romantic fantasy concocted by a childhood spent reading about such places on a moving island, but still. A trained assassin was allowed a modicum of romanticism every once in a blue moon.

              He rapped gently on the storm door, knowing that two out of three residents would be able to hear a pin drop, fighting the urge to bite at the nails on his free hand. The scrape of chair legs on hardwood flooring and loud barking signaled his arrival; Damian debated hauling it back to his bike while he could still plausibly escape, but the door swung open before he could so much as blink.

              “Damian,” Lois Lane said pleasantly, using her hip to block the barking dog from bursting onto the porch. “What brings you by so late?”

              “Mrs. Kent,” he murmured, trying to appear casual, as if he hadn’t just deliberately driven for hours in the opposite direction of Gotham. “I apologize if I’m disturbing your dinner. Is Jon h-”

              The boy in question whooshed out of the door, nearly causing a small tornado as he burst onto the porch. “Hey Dami,” he said excitedly, giggling as the dog jumped up on Damian, barking for attention. “Looks like Ranger missed you.”

              “Wonderful,” Damian muttered sarcastically, petting the dog regardless; he normally loved animals, but the Kent’s dog had a bad habit of slobbering on his favorite clothes without warning.

              “Jonathan,” Lois said sharply, drawing both of the boys’ attention immediately. “What have I told you about flying indoors?” Ranger whined piteously in response.

              “Aw, c’mon Mom,” Jon protested. “That was a _momentary hover_ at best.”

              “Well, you can momentarily hover your way back to clearing the table, young man,” she replied, hands on hips. “Damian, won’t you join us for dessert? We’re having apple pie. Clark’s mother’s recipe,” she said enticingly, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. No questions, no _is this okay with your dad,_ just an invitation. Which was what he’d wanted, really; he’d always felt safe with the Kents for that reason, because they could turn strangers into friends and accepted him for who he was, listened to him when he talked and didn’t try to force things on him without asking. It was a far cry from home.

              Jon bounced on the balls of his feet eagerly, eyes bright under his mop of dark hair. “Sure,” Damian agreed, forcing a smile. “I’ve got nowhere better to be.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

              Damian shoved a massive piece of pie into his mouth, savoring the way it practically melted on his tongue. Jon and Lois were bickering playfully at the sink, craning their necks towards the living room TV every once in a while to answer a _Jeopardy!_ question. It was amusing to watch the similarities in their mannerisms; Jon was as much his mother’s son as his father’s. Damian wondered whether the dichotomy was similar between himself and his own parents. A part of him wanted nothing to do with the al Ghul name, wanted to pretend there was nothing else in him but Wayne. Other times, like now, the Wayne legacy was nothing but a fucking disappointment, a trophy his father seemingly bestowed on everyone but him. Drake had been a bitter pill to swallow, but he’d been younger then, and stupider, and had long since gotten over it. Mostly. But now, _this…_

“So, Damian,” Clark said conversationally, jarring him out of his seething. The older man was drinking a decaf, fondly watching his wife and son, completely at ease in his own home, with his own family. He was everything a boy could want in a father; thinking that made Damian feel like a traitor, but he couldn’t deny how _at ease_ he felt in his presence. Someone to trust, for a boy who’d been bred not to. “I heard from a secret source that you’ve changed your costume. Ditched the green?”

              “A secret source?” Damian drawled, watching Jon stiffen across the room. “They’d be correct. It was time for a change. It makes me harder to see. Plus, I’ve always looked good in red and black,” he smirked, testing Jon’s reaction. It was bold, to toy with Jon in front of his parents, to hide their fledgling relationship right under their noses, but Jon got a thrill out of it as much as he did. Jon turned, cheeks burning; it had been quite the revelation when he’d shown Jon his old Redbird costume, hearing him call it _hot._ It hadn’t taken much work with his sketchbook to produce a new Robin design, though Drake had whined that he was _copying the work of his betters._ “If only I could get your son to follow suit, pardon the pun.”

              “Hear, hear,” Lois said, ruffling her son’s hair. “I’m sick to death of buying new pants every time they rip. And don’t even get me started on the Superman shirts.”

              “Mo-om,” Jon whined, blushing hard. “It’s my _aesthetic.”_ Jon had long since outgrown his Superman hoodie, opting instead for cobbling together outfits on a whim. His current favorite was a white Superman t-shirt, grey cargo pants tucked into red combat boots, and black fingerless gloves. Much to Damian’s chagrin, he’d also taken to wearing a denim jacket laden with patches and pins (including a Robin pin that made him blush every time he spotted it), looking like Drake’s idiot clone boy on steroids. He’d even made good on his earlier promise to wear those dreaded, beloved overalls out in public, grinning and posing for selfies dressed like a hick while Damian had paced amongst the scraps of killer robots.

              “You’ve been spending too much time with Conner,” Clark teased, winking at Damian conspiratorially. Sometimes he wondered if Clark _knew_ , deep down, whether he could hear every kiss, every little chuckle, the rush of blood through their veins. Damian wanted to believe that they would’ve been confronted about it by now; God only knew what his own father would have to say, but fortunately his son’s emotional functioning fell outside his realm of detection.

              “No such thing,” Jon chirped, drying his final plate. “Can we please be excused now? Hanging out with you old folks is cramping our style.”

              _“Tt_. Speak for yourself,” Damian smirked. “I’m enjoying the mature conversation for once.”

              “Yeah, making fun of me, real mature,” Jon deadpanned, grabbing Damian’s empty plate from the table. Their fingers brushed together for the briefest moment, sending shocks up Damian’s arm. Jon smirked over his shoulder as he walked back towards the sink, blushing wildly. It was wildly entrancing, watching the blood rush to his cheeks; it was part of why he’d come in the first place, because as much as the Kent farm was like a second home, Jon was the one who made it feel special. Made _him_ feel special. “Can Dami spend the night? It’s been ages since we hung out without explosions going off.”

              “Jon, you know your dad and I are leaving tomorrow morning. We’ve talked about you being alone on weekends. Not to mention the staggering number of chores you have to finish tomorrow,” Lois pointed out, arms crossed in that way that meant arguing was pointless.

              “Dami can help me with them!” Jon blurted. “Plus, we’re _fourteen,_ Mom. We’re the most responsible people we know. We’ve probably saved the whole world, like, three times over; we can be alone for a weekend!”

              “I didn’t sign up to do manual labor!” Damian cried in protest. The prospect of being alone with his secret boyfriend was extremely attractive, but not worth performing _servant’s chores._

              “Now Lois,” Clark said, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder. “This could be a good teaching moment. If the boys behave and Jon gets his work done, that proves we can trust him to be on his own in the future. And if Damian’s willing to help, it’ll be an excellent character builder.” Damian felt his jaw twitch incredulously, though whether from being volunteered for farm chores or the fact Superman himself was willing to trust his trouble magnet of a child to be alone, he couldn’t say.

              “Please, Mom. _Please,”_ Jon pleaded, sticking his bottom lip out in that puppy dog way of his.

              Lois’ eyes flicked between Damian, her husband, and her son, before she threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine. But I’m trusting you this time, boys,” she said sternly, making Damian involuntarily sit up straighter. “This house had better still be standing when we get back. If I see bullet holes or half the roof in another county…”

              “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” Jon gushed, picking up his mother and swinging her around, then running over to his father, hugging him too. “Thanks Dad.”

              “Listen to your mother,” Clark grinned, ruffling his hair. “And don’t forget about those chores.” Part of Damian burned inside, watching the easiness of it all, the way father and son trusted each other so completely. He hated how much he wanted it, too.

              “I won’t,” Jon promised, grabbing Damian by the wrist. “Dami’s a hard worker. Very diligent.”

              “Good to hear,” Clark said, looking Damian up and down. “But I’d lend him some clothes before you get started tomorrow. Leather pants aren’t the best for working in.”

 

* * *

 

 

              “Sure you don’t want to sleep in that?” Jon teased as Damian rifled through his closet, wrinkling his nose at Jon’s taste in fashion. Walmart flannels and oversized jeans, soft hoodies and even Damian’s favorite overalls. “Do you even own any shirts that cover your whole body?” Jon asked, tapping his fingers along Damian’s bare midriff.

              “I haven’t heard you complaining,” Damian tutted, placing his hand over Jon’s against his exposed skin. “Besides, it’s called _fashion,_ farmboy,” he drawled, leaning into his boyfriend. “And it’s practical. Why donate a shirt when I can just-”

              “Cut it to ribbons?” Jon teased, pressing their noses together. “Wait til my parents find out I’m dating a boy who wears crop tops and leather pants. The _horror,_ ” he giggled.

              “Like I said,” Damian purred, pushing their hips closer in a way that made Jon shudder. Maybe leather pants hadn’t been such a good idea after all. “I haven’t heard you complaining, J.”

              “No,” Jon breathed shakily, tentatively pressing his hips back against the pressure. It was a little bold, a little daring, like nothing they’d ever done before. “I like it. I like seeing you. I like looking at you and knowing you’re…mine.”

              “Yours?” Damian replied, shuddering as their hips rocked together, feeling Jon’s shaky breaths tickle his face. “Bold of you to assume.” Jon whined as Damian gently moved them towards the bed, heart pounding.

              Jon flopped back onto his sheets, flushed and desperate, arousal clearly visible even under his baggy jeans. Damian could feel his own erection, trapped inside his tight pants, throbbing for attention, for _Jon’s_ attention. It was tempting, _so_ tempting to rip Jon’s clothes off and finally see more of him. Instead, he slowly lowered himself next to Jon on the bed, hating the way the other boy’s face twisted in confusion. “We should slow down,” he said hesitantly, shifting so that his erection wouldn’t rub against the mattress. “Your parents are downstairs. And…we don’t want to lose their trust. Not now. Not when we can get more time alone later.”

              Jon blinked at him, reaching out to cup his chin with callused hands. “You didn’t come here just to see me, did you?”

              “What gives you that impression?” Damian muttered uncomfortably, unable to look at him directly.

              “You didn’t pack any bags. You didn’t even tell me you were coming over. And if you wanted some alone time, I mean…” Jon stroked his cheek with his thumb, blue eyes concerned. “Doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to see you ran here, D.”

              Damian sighed, clutching at Jon’s hand. “I don’t _run,”_ he huffed. “I merely came…seeking your advice. And company. If you’d like me to leave…”

              “I _wouldn’t,_ ” Jon insisted, giving him a quick peck on the lips. “What’s bugging you?”

              Damian gritted his teeth, feeling his anger starting to build again. He’d learned to keep his emotions under tight lock and key as he’d grown older; much easier than giving everything away at the slightest provocation. “You’ve heard by now, surely, about my father’s impending nuptials,” he began, biting out _nuptials_ like a curse.

              “Yeah,” Jon said slowly. “Dad was telling Mom the other night. I was kinda surprised, I mean… _oh,”_ he said quietly in realization.

              “Yes,” Damian muttered sourly. _“Her._ The thief. The criminal. The woman. No asking my opinion, no consultation over whether I wanted her in _my_ house, under my roof, pretending to be someone I don’t _need._ ” He realized he was shaking, fuming in anger. “I’m sorry,” he said gently, nudging Jon with his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have dumped this on you. It was stupid of me to come here.” He pushed off the bed, marching purposefully back to Jon’s closet. Stupid _, stupid,_ always pushing back, pushing away.

              “Dames-” Jon started, grabbing at his arm.

              _“Don’t,”_ Damian snapped warningly, hating the way Jon recoiled at the harshness. He bent down, untying his boots methodically. “We’d better get some rest, considering the number of menial tasks you volunteered me for that we have to sort through tomorrow.” He stepped gingerly out of his boots, placing them in an empty spot amid Jon’s cluttered room. He softened a bit, deliberately, to put Jon at ease. “Which I’m thankful for,” he added softly, taking Jon’s hands in his own. “I feel like we haven’t really gotten time to ourselves. Properly, I mean. Not since the fair.” And the stolen moments they could use in between missions, ducking under bridges and behind walls to trade breathy kisses and wandering hands.

              “Yeah,” Jon said eventually, rubbing his thumbs along Damian’s hands. “I’ll show you how we do shit around here. Your little glimpse of Americana,” he grinned. “You’re lucky I’ve still got spare boots in your size.”

              “Brilliant,” Damian said sarcastically. “Just how I was hoping to spend my Saturday.”

              “You’ll love it,” Jon promised. “Now c’mon, go grab some jammies. I still have that onesie you love so much.”

              “I told you to _never_ speak about that again.”

 

* * *

 

 

              Damian wiped his arm across his sweaty brow, glaring at the ease with which Jon was lugging a stack of wooden posts over his shoulder. Damian himself felt like every part of his body was on fire, not to mention filthy; the only saving grace was that fixing the fence on the edge of the Kent’s property was their final chore. Well, not the _only_ saving grace, since Jon had worn his prized overalls again to work, grinning knowingly at Damian as he’d watched him dress. He looked amazing, as usual, with his plain white t-shirt and red flannel wrapped around his waist, a baseball cap shielding his eyes from the sun. Damian himself had chosen one of Jon’s many Superman t-shirts and a pair of sturdy brown carpenter pants, tucked into a muck-covered pair of Jon’s rubber boots. Not what he’d have picked out of his own closet, but damn if Jon at least didn’t look right at home.

              “Explain to me again why you can’t just use your powers to finish this in five minutes?” Damian huffed, lugging a massive toolbox in one arm and another bundle of posts over his other shoulder.

              “Principle,” Jon explained easily, strolling merrily along. “You don’t learn to build a work ethic and the importance of diligence by speeding through everything. Plus, I kinda find it relaxing. Easier than fighting monsters and catching bank robbers.”

              “In your opinion,” Damian sniped sourly, though he had to admit that Jon wasn’t wrong. There was a simplicity, an honesty in hard work, even work as unpleasant as shoveling horse shit and hammering fence posts all day. Plus, owning a farm meant more space for animals, which meant Damian could pet and feed them all whenever he wanted, which was a huge plus. He doubted his father had ever put effort into this kind of work. Or his mother. Certainly not The Woman, with her pampered lifestyle, supplied by her ill-gotten gains.  

              “Ready?” Jon asked, squinting at the evening sun.

              “Sure,” Damian replied, depositing his tools and posts, grabbing the mallet. He was no stranger to physical exertion, but this kind of work was much different from what he was used to; every swing of the mallet, driving the stakes into the ground, made his muscles ache in protest. It had been a while, since he’d been tested like this, and it felt good to be challenged by his own body. Not even Jon, ramming the posts into the ground with one go, could deflate his mood.

              They made short work of the fence, especially since Jon’s super strength made him twice as fast as Damian, to the point that Damian didn’t even notice Jon standing over him when he finished hammering the final post in. “Look at you,” Jon smiled. “Right at home, _hayseed.”_

              “Don’t you start,” Damian rolled his eyes, accepting Jon’s hand up regardless. “I did this to help you, not for personal enjoyment,” he continued, using Jon’s overall straps to pull him close. “I’ll take a show of gratitude, for my hard work.”

              “Will you, Superboy?” Jon giggled, tapping the logo on Damian’s shirt. “I think I can manage that.” He pressed his lips against Damian’s waiting mouth, hungrily smacking their lips together, memories of the previous night still fresh in their minds. There was time for that later, though, so much time; Damian just wanted to enjoy the moment as the sun dipped below the horizon, illuminating them both in dying light.

              Jon pulled back, laughing a little, nuzzling up against him. “Bear with me a minute?” he asked, rubbing circles into Damian’s back.

              “Always,” Damian replied, curious, but reluctant to let Jon go, enjoying the feel of his rough denim overalls under his hands.

              Jon grinned, kissing his cheek, before tearing off in a blur, sending clouds of dust up everywhere. Damian squinted, waving his hand to dispel the dirt, noticing that Jon had vanished with the remaining tools and supplies, into the now illuminated barn. He could hear music drifting over the field, tugging his mouth into a grin. “Idiot,” he muttered fondly, jogging across the field to join his stupidly sentimental boyfriend.

              The inside of the barn was lit up like a Christmas tree, strings of colored lights leading up to the loft where Jon liked to spend his time. The boy in question had country music playing softly, which felt _right_ for Jon despite Damian’s hatred of the genre. He climbed the stairs quickly, eagerly awaiting what Jon had planned for him despite himself. What he found in the loft didn’t disappoint; Jon had thrown his beanbag chairs together and piled blankets on top of them, illuminated only by the colors of his string lights, making a cozy little nest for them.

              “Hey handsome,” Jon said quietly, leaning up against one of the support beams. “Take those boots off and stay awhile.”

              “If you insist,” Damian replied playfully, pulling his boots off and slinking over to where Jon was standing. “Sit with me?”

              _“If you insist,”_ Jon parroted, giggling as Damian tugged him over to the little nest by the hammer loop on the side of his overalls.

              “I keep finding more and more uses for these,” Damian grinned, easing back into the chairs and letting Jon meld into him, pulling the blankets over them.

              “I told you, practical,” Jon said. “Perfect for farming, and fighting bad guys, and making your boyfriend drool,” he teased, nuzzling against Damian’s warm body. “And pulling me around, apparently. You ought to invest in a pair, if you wanna live like this one day.”

              _Shit._ Of course Jon had figured him out, watching him work. “I don’t know,” he admitted, watching the last rays of sunlight give way to starry blackness. “This was…nice. Everything is simple, and straightforward, and you just…you looked so perfect today. And I feel like shit, for wanting this too.”

              “Why?” Jon questioned gently, squeezing his hand.

              “Because of everything I’ve been through. I was trained to be an assassin. Then I trained to fight at Batman’s side. I assumed I’d one day replace him, but…” It was toxic, so muddled in with everything else, the fact that his father had kept the truth about him and The Woman hidden, what the darkest part of his brain assumed that meant. He was expendable, and temporary, and out of the way the second his father obtained an heir he could mold from infancy. It was ridiculous, he knew that; though he didn’t always show it, his father was a compassionate man, and cared for Damian as much as any of his adopted children. The _threat,_ the implication of what the impending marriage meant, still gnawed at him all the same.

              “Dames,” Jon cooed, snuggling closer to him. “Your dad’s a lot of things, mostly scary ones, but he wouldn’t replace you. You’re his _kid,_ man. Just because he’s getting hitched doesn’t mean you’re gonna get thrown out on the front steps.”

              “I know,” Damian snapped, threading his fingers through Jon’s hair. “It’s just…” he sighed, struggling to find the words to articulate everything, his entire life upending itself in slow motion. “Everything’s changing. My father wants to spend the rest of his life with this woman. What does that mean for me? What does it mean for Batman and Robin?” He sighed, pulling Jon closer, as if his presence could make things revert to the way the used to be. “I have you now. And if we’re being honest, we can’t keep this a secret forever. I don’t _want_ it to be a secret forever. I don’t…I don’t even know what I want anymore. The future, it’s…it’s not as clear as it used to be.” _And I’m scared._

              “Yeah, but…” Jon pressed softly, curled against him. “It’s your choice. Nobody’s gonna hold a sword over you and make you be Batman. I don’t know what I want either. I can’t be Super _boy_ forever. I don’t think I wanna be.” He rolled, positioning himself on top of Damian, intimate and perfect, like he’d always belonged there. “All I know is, I love you like crazy, and I wanna be with you. And I hope you wanna be with _me,_ too.”

              “I do,” Damian insisted, wrapping his arms around Jon’s waist. “I do, I want it, I want _you._ I want this, I want _this_ with you.” He blinked quickly, worrying that the tears clouding his vision would spill over. “I _want,”_ he said finally, letting Jon rest on top of him, listening to his heartbeat, and the music, and his own shuddering breaths, praying to whoever would listen that the path forward became clear.

 

* * *

 

 

              The gentle knock on his door drew Damian’s attention away from his sketchbook, currently cluttered with half-completed designs for Jon’s new costume. _Anything_ was better than that patch-laden jacket. “Enter,” Damian said, nudging Titus with his foot so he could sit up properly.

              “A package arrived for you, Master Damian,” Alfred announced, presenting him with a plain brown box. “From young Master Kent,” he added, almost knowingly, in a way that made Damian extremely nervous.

              “Thank you, Pennyworth,” Damian replied stiffly, accepting the box with as little ceremony as he could muster. Alfred nodded, shutting Damian’s door gently. Damian waited until the butler’s footsteps faded from the hallway; it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jon not to send him something that would blow the whistle on their relationship, but even a loyal servant such as Alfred couldn’t be fully trusted not to reveal something to his father. Damian hopped up from the couch excitedly, grabbing his katana from the mantle and gingerly cutting the packing tape. He shooed Titus away from sniffing at the contents, tearing open the flaps to dig around inside. He pulled out a bundle of solid, heavy denim, as well as a note at the bottom of the box, clearly Jon’s handwriting. Heartbeat accelerating, Damian read the note first.

              _D,_

_Picked you out a little something that might come in handy in the future, no matter where it takes you. I know how much you love practicality, plus you seem to like these on me, so I figured I might as well give you the chance to see what I’ve been talking about. I know you’ll figure this out. There’s not a problem in this world you can’t solve. Love you lots._

_xoxo_

_J_

              Smiling fondly, Damian set the note aside and unfolded the bundle, snorting in disbelief when he saw what Jon had sent him. “Idiot,” he said out loud, holding his own pair of overalls, grinning like a fool. He had half a mind to burn them in the fireplace, but they _would_ come in handy for painting, come to think of it. Plus, he could hide an impressive number of knives in all the pockets… _“Tt._ Turning me into a farm boy,” Damian muttered, moving to try them on.

              After all, Jon would never have to know he’d kept them.

             


End file.
